


A Kindness He Never Refused

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenfeels, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He exhaled, held the cigarette out between two fingers, rotated his hand to just look at the thing, though he wasn't sure why. Odd. Pleasant."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kindness He Never Refused

**Author's Note:**

> an anonymous tumblrista prompted: John starts smoking after Sherlock's fall.

It turned out later that it was his last visit to 221B, though he didn't know it when he found himself by the mantel, picking up things to turn over in his hand, nothing seeming heavy enough anymore: the crushing weight of absence smothering him hour after long, silent hour.

The little slipper John couldn't help but think of as an elf's shoe, so pretty and silly and curled up at the toe. Inside: nineteen cigarettes, probably gone stale. John liberated one, slid it across his upper lip as he inhaled. They did smell good, before they burned and turned cloying. He'd smoked a bit in the army, never enjoyed it but he'd never turn down a B & H or a Marlboro when one was offered; such things were precious during war time—stress relief and a reminder of home—and for a man to extend his packet to John was a kindness he never refused.

Nearby, in a green glass ashtray with some foreign coins and an open safety pin, a heavy and probably expensive cigarette lighter engraved with someone's monogram (not Sherlock's). John tucked the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, clamped between his teeth, felt he filter paper stick to the moisture inside his lips. It took three tries to strike the lighter, but after a good shake it went, and he inhaled.

It was stale, indeed—reminded him of the smell of the fire just below where he now stood, avoiding the mirror so he wouldn't have to see the sadness crumpling his face. He exhaled, held the cigarette out between two fingers, rotated his hand to just look at the thing, though he wasn't sure why. Odd. Pleasant.

He slid the contents of the ashtray onto the mantel top, set it on the arm of his chair, lowered himself into it. Sat back and smoked. Avoided looking at Sherlock's chair so he wouldn't have to feel the stab of memory in his chest. The smoke curled around his head and he closed his eyes. It smelled like half-one in the morning, lifting his head from Sherlock's pillow, his voice thick with sleep:  _Sherlock, come to bed_.

The affirmative hum from the far end of the lounge, Sherlock in the desk chair near the cracked-open window. Time enough for one more drag, and to stub it out, then his footsteps and the weight of him on the mattress. Open eyes staring at John across the pillow in the near-dark. He would run fingers through Sherlock’s hair until one of them drifted off.

John smoked Sherlock's bland, dirty-tasting old cigarette down to the filter. He crushed out what was left in the green glass ashtray and left it there on the arm of his chair. Checking his pocket for the papers he'd come to retrieve, he took the slipper with its 18 tasteless cigarettes and left the flat for the last time.


End file.
